Aaradhya sat beside him, unmoving.

Tears slipped silently from beneath her veil, soaking into the heavy silk as her body trembled despite her efforts to stay still. 

The sounds of chanting, bells, and murmured prayers surrounded her, yet everything felt distant—blurred, unreal—like she was watching her own life from afar.

Just a few hours ago, this man had been introduced to her as jija ji.

The brother-in-law she had shyly greeted, her head lowered, her voice barely above a whisper.

 The man she had never dared to tease, never dared to joke with the way other sisters-in-law did.

 A man whose presence alone had always made her cautious, careful, aware of her every movement.

And now—

Now she was sitting beside him at the sacred fire.

Soon, she would take seven pheras with him.

Soon, her destiny would be tied to his—not just for this life, but for seven lifetimes, as the elders said.

Was she happy?

No.

She was terrified.

Her heart pounded violently in her chest, each beat echoing fear rather than joy. This wasn't the flutter of excitement brides were supposed to feel. 

This wasn't anticipation. This was dread—raw and consuming.

She stole a glance at him through the edge of her veil.

Harshavardhan Singh Acharya.

He sat rigidly, his broad shoulders tense beneath the embroidered sherwani. His jaw was clenched so tightly she could see the muscle twitch beneath his skin. 

His eyes—dark, cold, and sharp—stared straight ahead, untouched by the sacredness of the moment.

There was no warmth in them.

Only anger.

Only danger.

It radiated from him so intensely that Aaradhya's fingers curled into her lap unconsciously, as if bracing herself for something inevitable.

The priest's voice rose above the chants.
"Put the bride's hands over the groom's for the next ritual."

Aaradhya's breath hitched.

Slowly, as if her limbs no longer belonged to her, she lifted her trembling hands and placed them atop his.

The moment her skin touched his—

His fingers closed around hers.

Hard.

Painfully tight.

A sharp gasp lodged in her throat, though no sound escaped. His grip was unyielding, possessive, filled with something dark and simmering. Not reassurance. Not comfort.

Control.

Her pulse raced as fear crawled up her spine. For a fleeting second, instinct screamed at her to pull away—to stand up, to run, to escape before it was too late.

But before the thought could fully form—

His parents lifted the end of her veil and tied its edge to Harshavardhan's stole, securing the knot carefully, deliberately.

A symbolic gesture.

A sacred one.

Her destiny was being tied to his.

Quite literally.

The fabric tugged gently, but the meaning crushed her chest. She was bound now—by ritual, by tradition, by fate she had never chosen.

Her vision blurred as tears welled again, but she didn't cry aloud. She couldn't. A bride was supposed to be graceful, composed, blessed.

So she swallowed her sobs and endured.

Endured the weight of his grip.

Endured the fire blazing before them.

Endured the truth settling painfully into her bones—that from this moment on, her life would never be her own again.

Harshavardhan didn't look at her.

He didn't soften his hold.

If anything, his fingers tightened just a fraction more, as if reminding her—silently, unmistakably—that there was no turning back.

She sat there, wrapped in silk and fear, hiding the fragments of her breaking heart behind a veil—while the world celebrated a union neither of them truly wanted.

And as the sacred fire crackled between them, Aaradhya realized something with chilling clarity:

This marriage was not the beginning of a love story.

It was the start of survival.

They stood up for the pheras.

The moment Aaradhya rose to her feet, reality crashed into her with brutal clarity. Each step she was about to take would seal her fate further. 

There would be no turning back after this. No escape hidden between rituals or prayers.

 Every circle around the sacred fire would bind her more tightly to the man standing beside her.

A man the world feared.

A man known for his cold heart, his dangerous temper, and the violence whispered behind closed doors. Harshavardhan Singh Acharya—whose name alone was enough to make powerful men lower their voices.

Her chest felt tight as she took her first step, the heavy bridal lehenga dragging against the floor like chains.

 Fear weighed her down more than the fabric ever could. Her breath came shallow beneath the thick red veil, sweat collecting at her temples, her fingers trembling as she clutched the edge of her dupatta.

How will I survive this life with him?
The question echoed relentlessly in her mind.

Beside her, Harshavardhan moved with rigid precision. His strides were long, controlled—each step sharp and deliberate. 

Inside, irritation burned dangerously close to the surface. Her hesitant, shaking pace tested his patience, every second stretching his already thin restraint.

He wasn't controlling himself because of his family.
He never feared them.
He never bowed to expectations.

He wasn't even controlling himself because this was his wedding.

He was controlling himself for one reason alone.

Guests.
Media.
Reputation.

The thing he valued more than anything else.

Cameras were everywhere, lenses capturing every movement, every angle. 

The press waited hungrily for even the smallest crack in his composure. And he would not give them that satisfaction—not today.

Yet the anger was there, unmistakable, etched into his face. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. His eyes, dark and unforgiving, remained fixed ahead, though his awareness never left her.

As they circled the fire, his hand tugged at the fabric connecting them—sharp, impatient pulls meant as warnings.

Walk faster.
Don't embarrass me.

Each tug made her flinch.

Aaradhya struggled to keep up, her feet heavy, her vision blurred with unshed tears.

 The weight of her attire pressed into her shoulders, her chest, her very breath. It felt suffocating—like the moment before drowning, when the body knows it has no air left.

Her hands shook uncontrollably, her steps uneven despite her desperate effort to appear steady.

 Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, hidden behind the thick crimson veil that concealed her face from the world.

No one noticed.

And that was the point.

The veil was dark. Heavy. Opaque enough to hide everything—her fear, her tears, her identity.

To the guests, she was simply the bride.

Perfectly adorned. Perfectly silent.

No one suspected that the bride sitting there was not the one they had expected. Only a handful of people knew the truth. 

The rest saw luxury, tradition, and power unfolding before their eyes.

With each phera, the priest's chants grew louder, more final.

With each circle, Aaradhya felt something inside her breaking quietly.

By the fourth round, her legs felt weak.
By the fifth, her heart felt numb.
By the sixth, resignation replaced terror.
By the seventh—

She felt hollow.

When the final phera was completed, the fire crackled loudly, sparks rising into the air as though sealing the oath itself. Applause erupted around them. 

Blessings were shouted. Smiles bloomed across faces that believed they were witnessing the beginning of a glorious union.

Aaradhya stood there, tied to a man she feared, her destiny sealed under silk and fire.

Harshavardhan released his grip at last, his fingers flexing as if shaking off restraint. His face remained unreadable—cold, composed, powerful.

To the world, they were a perfect match.

Only she knew the truth.

This wasn't a marriage born of love or choice.

It was a cage—beautifully decorated, fiercely guarded, and impossible to escape.

And as the sacred smoke curled upward, Aaradhya realized with aching certainty:

From this moment on, survival would be her greatest prayer.

_______________________

Even while greeting the guests, he walked away from her as if she didn't matter.

Harshavardhan stepped off the stage without a backward glance, leaving Aaradhya standing alone beneath the lights and watchful eyes. 

The humiliation burned quietly in her chest. She didn't know these people. 

She didn't know the rules of this unfamiliar world she had stepped into only minutes ago. Yet here she was, expected to smile, to nod, to belong.

She lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening around the edge of her dupatta as murmured congratulations washed over her. 

Every smile felt heavy, every blessing hollow.

To Harshavardhan, standing beside her any longer would have been unbearable. 

His anger simmered dangerously close to the surface, threatening to spill over. 

So he chose distance. He walked away casually, lighting a cigarette, then reaching for a drink—anything to dull the edge of his fury.

His parents noticed, of course. They knew he shouldn't have left the stage, not like this. But fear held them back. No one dared approach him, no one dared correct him.

And in truth, it didn't matter much.

Most of the VIP guests had already departed.

 Only close relatives and a few trusted family friends remained—people who would pretend not to notice, who would quietly accept his absence as just another trait of Harshavardhan Singh Acharya.

Aaradhya remained where she was, alone in a crowd, learning her first lesson in this marriage:

She would often be left to stand by herself.

_________________

As the footage played on the television, replaying the events of fourteen years ago, Harshavardhan hissed under his breath.

Not out of guilt.

He had none.

He never did.

According to him, guilt was reserved for mistakes—and that day had never been one.

 How could anyone expect him to behave gently, lovingly, when he hadn't even known the woman's name he was being bound to? 

A stranger draped in red, hidden beneath a veil, tied to him by tradition and obligation. Love had never been part of the agreement.

No—the sound that escaped him wasn't remorse, nor the desire to undo anything.

It was irritation.

Physical, sharp, unavoidable.

Because beside him, Aaradhya sobbed.

Her body trembled as she sat close, her fingers clenched so tightly around his hand that her nails dug into his skin. 

At one point, she brought his finger to her mouth, biting down hard—almost cruelly—as if pain was the only thing keeping her from completely breaking apart.

Harshavardhan didn't pull away.

He let her.

On the screen, the younger Aaradhya cried silently beneath her veil—fragile, terrified, enduring.

 Fourteen years later, the pain still lived inside her, untouched by time. Watching herself like that reopened wounds she had never allowed to heal.

Her sobs grew heavier as memories crashed over her—the fear, the suffocation, the helplessness.

This had become a ritual.

Every year, on their marriage anniversary, Harshavardhan returned home early. 

Without fail, Aaradhya would sit beside him and turn on the wedding video. 

She watched it again and again, forcing herself to relive the pain she had survived.

And then—

She made sure he felt it too.

Not through words.
Not through accusations.

But through silence, tears, and distance.

For at least a month afterward, she would emotionally unravel him—slowly, methodically. A punishment neither of them ever named aloud, but both understood perfectly.

Harshavardhan stared at the screen, jaw tight, saying nothing as her sobs filled the room.

Fourteen years had passed.

This time, she bit down harder.

On the screen, the younger version of herself clung to her mother, sobbing uncontrollably, while he sat inside the car—rigid, unmoved, already turning away. The memory ignited something raw and furious inside her.

How could he do that?

Her teeth sank into his finger with renewed force.

Harshavardhan hissed sharply, pain shooting through his hand. He yanked his finger free and, without thinking, struck the back of her head—hard enough to make her gasp.

"Are you crazy?" he snapped, rubbing his finger instinctively. "Stupid!"

Aaradhya groaned, clutching her head as pain flared, anger blazing brighter than the ache. In one swift movement, she lunged at him, grabbing his collar and biting down on his cheek in retaliation.

He froze—shocked, stunned.

Then anger flared.

He shoved her away, harder than necessary, sending her falling back onto the couch. He stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, staring at her with cold, disbelieving eyes.

"Are you okay?" he demanded, his tone sharp but edged with disbelief. "Can you stop behaving like children already, please?"

He wiped his cheek irritably, trying to remove the damp imprint she'd left behind, clearly offended.
"You're thirty-five years old, for God's sake. Behave."

Aaradhya looked up at him from the couch, rubbing her head. Then—unexpectedly—she smirked.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached out and cupped his face with both feet, pressing his cheeks inward until his lips puckered despite himself.

"But I'm your baby, right, Daddy?" she said lightly, mockingly, squeezing his face harder.

He shoved her legs off his face with visible irritation.

"Cringe," he muttered. "Now stop behaving like this before I dip you and dunk you into the swimming pool until you drain like a tea bag."

With that, he reached for the remote and shut the television off sharply, the screen going black as he turned his face away, jaw clenched in irritation.

Aaradhya bit down on her lip, barely managing to control the laugh threatening to escape her. She leaned back casually against the couch and said, far too innocently,
"You try so hard to sound Gen Z, Harsh ... even though we both know you're just an old fossil pretending to be cool."

Silence.

Slow, dangerous silence.

She felt it before she saw it—the shift in the air, the way his shoulders stiffened. When he turned to look at her, his eyes were cold, sharp, and calculating.

She had crossed a line.

Before she could react, he stood up and scooped her over his shoulder with terrifying ease. Aaradhya let out a startled gasp, her laughter dying instantly.

"Harsh—!"

Her eyes widened in panic as the ground disappeared beneath her feet.

"This isn't funny anymore," she squeaked, grabbing onto his shirt desperately. "Harsh, I'm sorry—baby, please put me down! I promise, I won't do it again, okay? Please—"

He didn't respond.

He didn't even slow down.

His grip was firm, unyielding, his strides long and purposeful as he carried her toward the staircase. Her heart pounded harder with every step upward. She clung to him, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his shirt like it was her only anchor.

By the time they reached the upper floor, her fear had fully settled in.

The swimming pool stretched out before them—wide, deceptively calm. The shallow end began at two and a half feet, but the far edge dropped sharply to eight feet. The dark water reflected the overhead lights, making the depth look even more intimidating.

Her breath hitched.

Deep water had never been her comfort. She knew how to swim—she had learned long ago—but fear didn't listen to logic. It never had.

"Harsh..." she whispered, her voice shaky now. "You're not serious. You can't be serious."

He stopped at the very edge of the pool—right where it was deepest—and finally set her down on her feet. Aaradhya wobbled slightly before steadying herself, still clutching his shirt tightly, her knuckles white.

She exhaled in pure relief.

He wouldn't do it.

Of course, he wouldn't.

Her heartbeat slowed just a little as she looked up at him, searching his face. The anger was still there—but beneath it was something else. Something restrained. Controlled.

Her "lovely" husband, as terrifying as he could be, wouldn't actually hurt her.

She released his shirt slowly, letting out a shaky breath, a nervous laugh bubbling up.
"See?" she said softly, trying to sound brave. "I knew you wouldn't—"

He tilted his head slightly, eyes unreadable.

A faint, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Aaradhya froze.

But she was absolutely wrong.

Before she could even register the shift in his mood, his arm slid around her waist, firm and possessive. He pulled her closer, his grip secure enough to leave no room for escape. She gasped softly as he leaned down, his voice low, almost amused.

"So," he asked calmly, eyes glinting with something unreadable,
"what were you saying? old fossil, hmm?  "

Aaradhya looked up at him, startled by the sudden closeness. Her teasing confidence melted instantly. She lifted her hands and cupped his face, her fingers warm against his cool skin. Her eyes softened, sincerity replacing mischief.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I know I hurt you. Please... I'm really sorry."

For a moment, he didn't say anything.

Then he sighed—long, controlled—and closed his eyes as if forcing himself to let go of the irritation curling in his chest.

"Fine," he said finally.
"Just never, ever repeat that. Okay?"

She nodded quickly, relief washing over her face. A shy smile curved her lips as she closed her eyes too, leaning closer, expecting—hoping—for a gentle moment.

But Harshavardhan Singh Acharya was never predictable.

In the very next second, his hands tightened around her waist, and before she could even gasp his name, he lifted her clean off the ground and dropped her straight into the pool.

"Aaah—!"

Her scream echoed sharply as her body hit the water with a loud splash.

Cold engulfed her instantly.

She sank for a brief moment before instinct kicked in. Panic flared as she flailed, then forced herself upward, breaking the surface with a desperate gasp for air. She clung to the edge with trembling hands, water dripping from her hair and face.

She could float.
She could stay on the surface.

But deep water terrified her—and she had never truly learned how to swim properly at this depth.

Her wide eyes snapped toward him.

He stood at the edge, arms crossed, watching her struggle with a smug, infuriating smirk.

"Harsh!" she cried, water splashing as she tried to stay afloat.
"You're so bad! Please take me out, I'm sorry—I swear I'll never do that again!"

He crouched slightly, resting one hand on his knee, leaning closer just enough to make her heart race.

"Promise?" he asked calmly.

"Yes! I promise!" she said quickly, her voice shaking.
"Please—just take me out!"

He studied her for a moment, clearly enjoying the power he held over her fear. Then he nodded, as if satisfied.

Grabbing her arm, he pulled her out with ease, placing her back on her feet. She stood there soaked, chest heaving, water dripping onto the marble floor as she tried to calm her breathing.

He looked down at her, tone dangerous again.
"So," he asked, "you'll never call me by names, right?"

She blinked up at him.

Then—despite the situation—her lips twitched.

"I can't promise that," she said, grinning ear to ear.

That was it.

The last thread of mercy snapped.

Without hesitation, he shoved her back into the pool.

This time, she wasn't prepared.

She gasped as she hit the water again, panic rushing in fast and overwhelming. Her movements turned frantic, her breath uneven as she struggled harder than before.

"Harsh—!" she shouted desperately.
"I swear, if you don't pull me out right now, I will keep you celibate for your entire life! I'll make sure you sleep in the guest room forever—do you hear me?!"

He froze mid-step.

The threat landed harder than any insult ever could.

Slowly, he stopped walking away and turned back, eyes narrowing as he processed her words. For a second, the mighty, merciless Harshavardhan looked... genuinely alarmed.

Celibate?
Guest room?

That was serious.

He cursed under his breath.

"Bloody hell..." he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

The pool no longer looked entertaining—it looked risky.

With a sharp sigh, he stepped back to the edge and leaned down, extending his hand toward her.

"Enough," he said firmly.
"I was joking. Grab my hand."

She didn't waste a second.

She clutched onto him like her life depended on it, and he pulled her out swiftly, wrapping an arm around her to steady her trembling body. She collapsed against his chest, coughing slightly, fingers digging into his shoulder as she caught her breath.

For a moment, he held her there—silent, protective, annoyed at himself.

"Drama queen," he muttered softly.
"But don't ever scare me like that again."

She looked up at him, hair plastered to her face, eyes still watery—but smiling.

"And don't ever throw your wife into deep water again," she replied.

He huffed.

"No promises."

But this time, his grip around her waist tightened—not to threaten...
but to keep her close.

_________________

Harshavardhan hissed again in irritation.

This time, it wasn't because of pain—physical or otherwise—but because of the sound.

His laptop rested open on his lap, spreadsheets and unread emails glowing on the screen as he tried—unsuccessfully—to focus on work. 

But the steady, rhythmic trr... trr... trr coming from the other side of the room was drilling straight into his skull.

He clenched his jaw.

Aaradhya sat on the floor in front of the heater, knees pulled to her chest, wrapped in a thick shawl like a grumpy burrito. 

Her teeth chattered uncontrollably as she tried to warm herself, phone clutched in her hand. 

Her thumbs flew over the screen while her lips moved nonstop, muttering curses under her breath.

She wasn't even looking at him anymore—just complaining.

"How can you do this to me?" she murmured angrily.
"What do you think of me, huh? A tea bag you can just dip and throw away?"

She sniffed dramatically and continued, voice trembling from both cold and outrage.

"I hate you. I really do. I should have never agreed to stay with you. Gosh, why didn't I divorce you when I had the chance? You're so bad. I regret that day so much—I could've escaped you!"

She paused, rubbed her hands together aggressively, then shot an invisible glare in his direction.

"You're shameless. Absolutely shameless. Even after hearing all this, you don't even come and apologize. You should at least say sorry—at least pretend you feel bad!"

Her muttering finally came to a halt when she heard a long, slow sigh.

The kind of sigh that meant she had officially crossed a line.

She froze.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him close the laptop with deliberate calm and place it on the table. The room felt suddenly heavier as he stood up.

Aaradhya swallowed.

She kept her eyes shut, pretending to focus on the heater, but her heart began to race. A faint blush crept up her cheeks—not fear, not entirely—more like anticipation mixed with guilt.

She heard his footsteps approaching.

Closer.

Closer.

Before she could react, strong arms scooped her up effortlessly from her crouched position. She gasped softly, instinctively gripping his shirt as he lifted her like she weighed nothing at all.

He carried her away from the heater and gently placed her somewhere

Then—

Click.

The sound was sharp and unmistakable.

Her eyes flew open.

For a second, she was disoriented, blinking rapidly as she tried to understand where she was. The warmth she expected, the bed, the blanket—none of it was there.

Cold marble pressed against her skin.

Her breath hitched as realization slowly settled in.

She was sitting in the hallway.

On their floor.

Aaradhya looked around in disbelief, her back against the wall, legs folded awkwardly beneath her. The dim hallway lights mocked her silently.

"...Did he just—"
She paused, lips parting in shock.

Did he really just throw her out of the room?

Her eyes darted to the closed door in front of her—the same door she had been inside just moments ago.

Well.

Correction.

His room.

Because till date, Harshavardhan proudly claimed it as his, not theirs.

 And honestly, she had never fought him on that. 

He was her Harshavardhan, so who cared about a stupid room?

But still.

This?

Her nose scrunched in disbelief as anger bubbled up inside her.

"How could he do that?" she muttered, offended to her core.
"I am not forgiving him. Ever."

She placed her palm on the floor and was about to stand up—fully prepared to shout, bang on the door, and create a scene worthy of a daily soap—when suddenly—

Click.

The door opened.

Her heart lifted instantly.

A small, smug smile crept onto her lips as she straightened slightly.

He realized his mistake, she thought triumphantly.
Of course he did. How long can he survive without me?

But Harshavardhan, as always, never failed to prove her wrong.

He didn't look apologetic.
He didn't look guilty.
He barely even looked at her.

Instead, he calmly stepped out, bent down, and placed her phone beside her.

Then the heater.

Right there. On the floor.

Her smile slowly died.

She stared up at him, eyes wide, brain struggling to process what

was happening.

Before she could say a single word—

Click.

He went back inside.

And locked the door.

The sound echoed louder than it should have.

Aaradhya sat there, frozen, staring at the door like it had personally betrayed her.

"...What?" she whispered.

Her mouth fell open.

"WHAT?"

She let out a long, dramatic sigh and leaned her head back against the door, making the most exaggerated crying face possible—lips pouting, eyes watery, fully offended.

"This is abuse," she murmured.
"Pure emotional abuse."

After a few seconds of sulking, she reached for her phone.

Fine.

If words wouldn't work in person, she would attack digitally.

She unlocked her phone and immediately opened the chat.

Her fingers flew across the screen.

Baby, open the door 🥺❤️
I love youuuu pleaseeee😘😘
Look who is chilling outside, freezing to death ❄️
I need your warmth 😔🔥🥵

She added more.

Way more.

Cringey emojis.👙💋💋🍆🍑💧
Extra hearts.❤🧡💛💚💙💜🤎🖤🤍💔💕💗💓💖
Overdramatic expressions.     ಥ_ಥ     (*/ω＼*)    ༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽      つಠ_ಠ    ^o^      (～﹃～)~zZ

She smiled proudly at her work and hit send.

Then she watched.

The messages showed double tick.

Her smile widened.

Then—

Blue tick.

"Ohhh," she whispered happily.
"He's reading."

She waited.

One second.
Two seconds.
Five.

Suddenly—

Single tick.

Her smile froze.

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

It took her a few seconds for the realization to fully hit her brain.

"...He blocked me."

Her jaw dropped.

She stared at the screen in pure disbelief, then slowly looked up at the locked door.

"That—" she inhaled sharply, offended beyond words,
"—that man is evil."

She hugged the heater closer, pouted dramatically, and muttered to herself,

"I swear... one day I will make you regret marrying me."

The heater hummed softly beside her.

The door stayed locked.

And Harshavardhan remained absolutely, unapologetically cruel.

She sighed dramatically, hugging the heater closer as if it were her only ally in this cruel world.

"Okay," she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing with determination.
"This is war."

Aaradhya decided to use her final weapon.

She looked around cautiously, turning her head left, then right, making sure no staff or guard was passing through the corridor. The hallway was quiet—too quiet.

Perfect.

She slowly unzipped her jacket just enough to look accidentally undone, adjusted the angle of her phone, tilted her head slightly, and clicked a picture—nothing vulgar, nothing shameless... just enough to push his buttons.

She attached it to the chat.

Then typed:

Last warning.

She hit send.

A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips as she stared at the locked door in front of her.

"Five," she whispered confidently.
"Four."
"Three."
"Two—"

She didn't even get to finish.

The door flew open.

She yelped in surprise as Harshavrdhan stood there, tall, intimidating, and absolutely livid. His eyes were cold, dangerous, sharp enough to slice through steel.

"Stop sending me these messages," he said flatly, voice low and lethal.

She blinked up at him, then—very deliberately—copied his expression. Same blank face. Same narrowed eyes.

"Then let me in."

For a moment, he just stared at her, jaw tight, nostrils flaring slightly as he fought an internal battle she knew she had already won.

He sighed.

Deep. Long. Resigned.

Without another word, he turned around and walked back inside, leaving the door open.

Aaradhya grinned like she had just conquered the world.

She quickly picked up her phone and heater, practically skipping inside before he could change his mind. Once in, she shut the door behind her and immediately turned the heater back on, planting it firmly where she wanted.

"Finally," she muttered, rubbing her hands together.

She walked toward him with purpose.

Harshavrdhan had already seated himself back on the couch, laptop balanced on his lap, pretending like she didn't exist—like she hadn't just emotionally blackmailed her way back in.

She didn't bother arguing.

Instead, she calmly took the laptop from his hands, placed it carefully on the table beside him, and without asking permission, climbed straight into his arms—curling into him like he was some oversized teddy bear.

She hugged him tightly, cheek pressed against his chest, arms wrapped around his torso.

"Mine," she murmured stubbornly.

He stiffened for a second.

Then glanced at the clock.

11:30 PM.

Too late to fight.
Too tired to argue.

With a defeated sigh, he switched off the light and pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her instinctively. His chin rested near her temple as he pressed a soft, absent-minded kiss to her cheek.

She smiled against him, victorious.

A moment later, curiosity got the better of her.

She reached for his phone.

And glanced at the lock screen.

The lock screen lit up softly in the dim room.

Aaradhya's breath caught.

It was a picture of her and Advik.

She frowned slightly, studying it closer. Advik looked impossibly small in the photograph, wrapped snugly in a soft grey blanket, his tiny face barely visible. And her—only part of her face was captured. Her eyes, her nose, her lips. No jewellery, no clothes visible, no effort to look perfect.

Just her.

She was kissing his forehead.

Her heart tightened.

She couldn't remember when the picture had been taken.

She stared at it for a long moment, trying to recall—searching through memories, days, nights—but nothing surfaced. She had asked him about this picture for thirteen years now. Every single time, he had dodged the question.

Never once did he give her an answer.

She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, then whispered, almost pleading,
"Please tell me... when did you take this picture? It always makes me restless."

As always, he smiled—slow, knowing, infuriating.

"You know," he said calmly. "Try to remember."

She sighed in frustration, resting her forehead against his chest.
"You always say that. Please tell me... or else I won't let you sleep tonight."

His lips curved into a smirk.

"I wouldn't mind," he replied lazily. "Keeping you awake all night."

She slapped his chest lightly, glaring up at him.
"Please, Harsh. Pleaseee."

He exhaled, finally giving in, his voice quieter now—less teasing, more real.

"Do you remember the day you first met Advik?"

Her expression softened instantly. She nodded, a gentle smile forming on her lips.
"How could I forget?" she whispered.
"It was... the most memorable day of my life."

He lifted an eyebrow, eyes sharp.
"More than our marriage?"

She looked at him flatly.
"That was a nightmare. So yes, I remember that."

For a second, he looked like he might actually consider throwing her off the balcony. Then he exhaled and let it go.

"And do you remember," he asked quietly, "what I was doing at that time?"

She tried to recall. At first, nothing—then the memory surfaced, sharp and aching.

"I was busy looking at the baby," she said slowly, the old hurt creeping back into her voice.
"And you were sitting there... ignoring both of us. Instead of looking at us, admiring us, you were on your phone. You know how hurt I wa—"

She stopped mid-sentence.

Realisation hit her all at once.

He hadn't been ignoring them.

He had been watching them—through the screen of his phone. Capturing the moment silently, without her knowing. Preserving it exactly as it was—raw, unposed, real. Not for the world. Not for appearances.

For himself.

Her eyes filled with tears.

For the first time, she understood. He had always cared—just never loudly, never gently, never in ways the world would recognise. His love had never been soft; it was hidden beneath cold silences, behind ruthless control, masked by indifference.

Some of his actions had been cruel—there was no denying that. But many others... were simply his way of caring. Of admiring. Of holding on.

It had taken fourteen years with him for her to finally read the language he spoke so fluently—one made not of words, but of restraint.

She rested her forehead against his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt.

And for once, he didn't pretend not to notice.

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, then suddenly buried her face into his chest, clutching his shirt tightly.

"I hate you," she whispered, her voice muffled against him.

A slow smile curved his lips. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her impossibly closer, his palm resting protectively against her back.

"Keep hating me," he murmured near her hair, his voice low and sure.
"You're stuck with me, princess."

He pressed a gentle kiss to her hair and guided her toward the bed, holding her as if letting go was no longer an option. Wrapped in his arms, surrounded by his warmth, her breathing slowly evened out.

Soon, both of them drifted into sleep—entangled, silent, and somehow at peace.

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